


Child's Play

by wreckofherheart



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: F/F, Motherhood, Therese POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-31 01:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6449461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It really is that: <i>simple</i>.</p><p>Therese, and the daunting prospect of becoming a stranger's mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Child's Play

You are young, and that is something she never allows you to forget. 

So when you’re asking about Rindy, curious (scared) about her next visit, you are left in the dark. Carol is a mother; you are not. That is something, something so enormously different between the two of you, but something you neglected to consider when you walked, willingly, into her open arms. 

Most nights, Carol tells you there won’t be a next visit, and she sort of reclines, brushes her cheek (wiping away tears she doesn’t want you to see), before retiring to bed. You can see it; you observe the absence of her daughter, how it damages her, how it ages her, and you’re heartbroken by the sight. 

The day––the minute––Carol asked you to live with her, to love her, to want her, you had realised how _simple_ your answer was. And she had kissed you then, kissed your cheeks, your forehead, your mouth, and you had kissed her back. You both consummated what was final the same evening; and Carol was surprisingly _submissive_. 

There has never been a tackle of dominance between the two of you, but she allowed your hands to caress and gently squeeze her breasts, your hips to roll on top of hers; she allowed you to make love to her with your fingers, and then, afterwards, with your tongue, and you clung to her while she came into your mouth, and then again, and then again, until she held your face between her hands and kissed you to stop.

It took hours, _hours_ , before both of you fell asleep. As if you and she had to make certain, _absolutely certain_ , this was final. She called you her angel, your heart burst, and you kissed her and kissed her until your jaw ached, your lungs _screaming_ for breath. Even when morning arrived, you had pulled her naked body onto yours, felt her smile into your kisses, and made her feel just how she makes you feel: beautiful, perfect, infectious, utterly divine.

She moaned out your name, and your eyes rolled back, your back arched, and your legs wrapped around her waist. 

Later that day, _past_ the day even, when you were still throbbing and only dressed in a gown, you had asked her about Rindy; a fatal mistake. You opened all the doors far too soon, and she turned to you, eyes wide. Perhaps she had been expecting you to ask, but it was too much. _Too much, and so, so soon._ Carol offered you a vague response, and all of the delight and joy in her eyes seemed to vanish.

A part of her dies every time you mention her little girl’s name.

You don’t ask about Rindy again. Not for another week, or two weeks; you don’t know long you wait, until you brace yourself, bring your arms around her, embrace her, and then ask. The moment you say Rindy’s name, she stiffens. You dig your fingers into her top, making sure she cannot flee, she cannot leave you; she doesn’t, but her answer, as always, is vacant. Close to dreamy, if it weren’t for the slight _edge_ in her tone.

Eventually, you ask about the visits.

‘There won’t be a visit––not soon enough, at least.’

You ask why.

‘Don’t worry right now, Therese.’ She tries to smile. ‘It’s something––something I can’t discuss at the moment.’

You pause, watch her. Then insist, kindly, that she reveals to you what is happening. Whether you will meet Rindy again; _why doesn’t she fight_? Carol is still, but when you ask again, a soft repeat, her gaze hardens and she raises her voice.

‘I said I cannot discuss _this_.’ She regrets her tone; she nearly flinches at her approach towards you. Then, Carol shakes her head, an apology ready, but what comes out next is a forfeited murmur. One not necessarily directed at you––‘You’re too young to understand,’––but you take it personally anyway.

You physically wince. Carol gasps at the pain she has caused to you, but she isn’t strong enough to watch, to wait, to hold you and say she’s so, so, so sorry. Because even if you think her magnificent, a powerful woman filled with so much enigma, Carol is still a mother, and she is still _very_ human. So, instead, she gives you room. She passes you, her hand brushing your shoulder, and you shudder, nearly reach out.

But she’s gone.

The very idea that you both remain apart for long drives you mad. You come to her not long afterwards, kiss her, and she kisses you, and you forgive each other, her fingers inside you, your tongue between her lips.

Gradually, you become her other half (her _better_ half), and she or you make dinner, wake up in the morning and kiss; dress together, share a mirror while applying makeup in a rush. Sometimes, you have to stop your performance and lose yourself in Carol first. How sublime she is while she decorates her lips in blood red. She takes your coat, helps you into it, kisses the corner of your mouth.

A happy life.

That is what she says to you. That she is happy.

You say you are happy too.

Carol is happy; _happy_. She is not delirious, she is not overwhelmed with joy. She is happy. Because without her daughter, that is the best she can be, and, for you, that is more than you could ever ask for. 

With you, Carol is happy.

Then, one afternoon, while she lies on your chest resting, and you are reading, the telephone rings.

‘Let me, my love,’ she says. You allow her.

You don’t hear much of the conversation. Carol hangs up after five minutes, and then she is cuddling you so tight, you’re in shock, and you cuddle her just as tightly, the book tumbling to your feet. And then she’s kissing you, and then she’s smiling–– _overwhelmed with joy_ ––and tells you what you have wanted to hear for so long.

Harge has changed his mind.

The man has decided what kind of father he shall be, and he shall be a father who allows his baby girl to know her mother. 

You’re grinning ear-to-ear, and when you’re clinging onto her, falling into another embrace, you realise, terrified, that you are not a mother. The person Rindy wants to see is Carol, and _only_ Carol. You? You are still a stranger to the family; still _that_ girl. 

_The cause of her parents’ marriage to dissolve_.

‘Please don’t think things like that,’ Carol whispers to you beneath the sheets. You have just voiced your worries, and she is stroking your cheek. ‘You’ll break my heart.’

Then, you wonder if you’re too young. Too young to understand Rindy’s requirements, too young to be an _adult_ at all in Rindy’s eyes; too young. 

Morning of her arrival, and Rindy looks like her mother. So much, and you wish she didn’t. Because if she looked like Harge, you would be able to cope better. Because Rindy looking like Carol makes this so, so, so personal. So close to your heart. 

You’re distracting yourself, preparing Carol tea, and Rindy some orange juice and biscuits. You try to avoid the girl; she has a high voice, an excitable nature, so it is hard to avoid her, but you try. You’re not ready yet. Not ready to face the girl, whose life you think you have destroyed. _I took your mother from you. I am the one who forced your mother to choose: you or I. It is me. It is all my fault. All my fault._

It brings tears to your eyes.

A small hand pulls at the hem of your skirt. You look down. A little girl looks up at you, blonde curls, red cheeks and an anxious expression. ‘Mommy says it’s not okay to cry alone; why’re you crying?’ It’s remarkable how mature her question is, how rational her statement, but this _is_ Carol’s daughter.

Still, you’re shocked she has caught you. You hope to find Carol rounding the corner, but her mother must be preoccupied; you are left alone with the child. The girl you have been so desperate, yet so afraid to meet.

‘No reason,’ you say. Rindy does not look convinced. ‘Don’t worry about me.’ You twitch a smile. Timid. 

‘A cuddle helps lots! I can give you one!’

‘Oh.’ You swallow, nervous. Rindy outstretches her arms, ‘O––Okay.’ You kneel down, and immediately Rindy wraps her arms around the back of your neck, and you hold her in return. It lasts a little over five seconds, and when you pull away, Rindy is smiling happily; _happy_. Just as her mother.

‘Feelin’ better?’

‘Yes. Very much. Thank you.’

‘Are those cookies? Can I have one?’

You peer over your shoulder at the plate of biscuits you prepared. ‘Ah.’ The embrace has made you a little more at ease. Still slightly tense, but… it’s easier. ‘They’re for you, actually. Here.’ You pass her one, and the girl giggles in excitement, and hurries out of the room in search of her mother. 

One minute.

You need one minute. One minute to wait. To feel flattered about the cuddle you were so generously offered. And you feel silly. Rindy doesn’t see you as anybody, but who you are; the woman her mother fell in love with; the woman her mother lives with, and, for Rindy, it truly is that simple.

You _are_ young, but not that young.

Taking Carol and Rindy’s drink with you, you step out of the kitchen; spot mother and daughter solving a jigsaw puzzle. It is Rindy who sees you enter first. The little girl jumps to her feet, and runs for you. ‘You gotta come help us!’ Stunned, you allow the girl to grab your hand,guide you to where Carol is seated, who watches you with this adoring look, quiet as you come and sit between the two of them.

Rindy thinks it of upmost importance the jigsaw puzzle be solved, and you’re able to comfort her; that you and she and her mother will find all of the pieces. Rindy hears you, stops, and then she’s nodding. She realises, thanks to you, that there isn’t a rush, and after you’ve helped with the jigsaw puzzle, Rindy has to introduce you to the doll she brought with her, as well as the miniature train her father bought.

The whole day, Rindy stays by your side; she follows you around the house while you fetch the laundry, while you prepare more drinks. She even tells her mother she wants to sit next to you at dinner. Carol is obliging, and says very little throughout. 

When evening ticks, the girl is no longer following you around, no longer asking you to play with her, or solve puzzles. 

The girl has collapsed in your arms. Fast asleep.

And Carol is stroking your hair, watching her baby sleep in your lap, and she whispers her love for you. You smile at her, rest your head on her shoulder, surrounded by the only family you’ve ever come to love.

It really is that: _simple_.


End file.
